Love is an Action

It was a bright and crisp Autumn day and I was riding a joyful little 125CC Honda motorcycle across a remote wilderness in South Georgia shortly after the end of the Falkland’s War.  The huge tufts of marram grass were tossed around in the light and changeable winds of the South Atlantic as I found my way, without a map, across the treeless landscape.  

The ride for me was as frustrating as it was enthralling with very few trails to follow. 

Progress was slow and for my inexperience on a trail motorcycle in this type of terrain it was a process of riding, falling over, getting up, riding, falling over again. Thankfully they were all soft landings in the big ruts, but I was concerned about keeping this bike safe. And at times I thought I could easily lost in these remote hills of this land forever, but I knew that if I kept the coastline to my left that I would be okay.   So I kept on riding, loving the challenge. 

I was on a lonely one-man adventure having been given leave for a few days on R&R, to go and recover some sanity, trying to forget the stress of ill health, PTSD, a horrible divorce, living on a roller coaster of dark emotions and terrible nightmares.  No-one knew where I was, mobile phones didn’t exist, I had no maps and no radio, so I was gloriously alone for once. 

On this particular day I was on a borrowed treasure of a motorcycle that meant the world to a sixteen year old girl that had very kindly lent it to me on the understanding that I looked after it carefully.  It had been her 16^th birthday present a few months before from her dad to be able to get to school on her own, some eight miles away.  I dearly promised that I would look after it and return it safely and undamaged. Her family were farmers that ran a remote sheep holding in South Georgia and kind and generous souls had extended their hospitality to look after me in my hour of need. 

And so it was.  My random journey took me around inlets, over empty, muddy fields, through hillsides of rough and unmanageable areas of tussock grass. Never really knowing where I was going and having no plan. I passed the occasional killing fields where farmers, in their increasing poverty after a sharp world decline in the trading value of sheep and sheepskin, reluctantly herded their flocks into a stone circle and shot them, leaving them to rot as that was simply the most economical way to deal with their problem. 

By mid-afternoon, pleasantly exhausted by the complete, if not just temporary, change in my life to be free and in fresh air and in the sunshine, I noticed a wire fence that was steadily closing in on me as I rode further on my bumpy ride.

I didn’t take much notice and carried on my staccato journey trying to ride like a motocross professional but instead being thrown so often to the ground by the rough terrain. 

I continued. The wire fence came closer.  And closer.

I started to take an interest in it because it looked a new fence.  A recent installation.  Fresh, steel stanchions, taught wires with a grey triangle mid-way between each fence post. It wasn’t in keeping with this run-down part of the world.

I hope it wouldn’t stop my progress but sure enough, half a mile further on the fence hit a corner and looked to block my progress completely. 

I was annoyed.  What lay beyond looked an interesting coastline and inlet and possibly even easier riding on flat ground. 

I didn’t understand the purpose of the fence though. A new fence with no obvious demarcation or field boundary.  And those weird grey triangular signs. So many of them.  Why grey? Why nothing on them? What did grey signify?  

I had been warned about keeping well away from active minefields, but knew they were well marked, and this clearly wasn’t one of them.  I could vouch for that having seen many from the air during flying activities on the Island. The Falkland’s war had only recently finished and though in this area the Argentinians had extensively mined the area to prevent troop landings, they were clearly marked and mapped.  

Though this fence had similarities, the grey signs baffled me. I rode on right up towards the fence.

Twenty feet in front of the fence I jerked to a halt as the reality suddenly hit me like a bolt of lightning. 

Those signs were grey because I was looking at the back of the sign.  It was the other side that had the graphic red skull and crossbone. The warning side that I couldn’t see.  The warning that said 

“Danger   Mine-Field.   No Entry”.

Somehow, I was on the inside of an active , highly dangerous minefield, on a motorbike, both feet planted firmly on the ground, with absolutely nowhere to go, having driven possibly up to half a mile through it.

I froze.  Horrified.  Open Eyed. Speechless.

Then the words slowly came

“Fuck”

“Fuck’

“FUCK FUCK FUCK”

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!”

I looked around hoplessely tring to work out how I had got in there, but there was no answer. The fence disappeared behind a hill behind me and there were no other clues where the minefield started or ended.  I just knew that I was right in it, and in deep trouble. 

My head did full 360 degree turns while the rest of my body remained immobile. And another turn.

I looked for the evidence of disturbed ground that might indicate the location or presence of mines. But I had no idea what I was really looking for. Would I expect to notice anything or not?  It all looked the same. Memories of conversations of single pass and double pass mines passed through my head? 

“Fuck Shit” “Fuck” It was starting to become a whisper as shock became realization and realization became pleading. “ Please No” “No, No, NO” 

The stark reality started to come about in my head that I had to make a very, very difficult decision that could have grave consequences for me and everyone I knew or cared for.

What happened next turned my whole life around. 

Sat on the borrowed motorbike in the middle of this minefield, I knew I had only two hours to return, three at most, before it got dark and my hosts would raise the warning that I was missing..  I had some careful thinking to work through.

I closed my eyes and started to assess my situation.  The way I saw it I had three options.

1. I could leave the motorbike where it was and walk out to the minefield boundary, only 20ft away.  Climb over the fence and walk back to the farmstead, leaving the motorcycle there. I couldn’t lift the motorcycle over the fence, it was too heavy and the fence too high. It would have been left there to rot.
2. The second option was what I knew I was supposed to do. I had been briefed on arrival at Stanley Airfield that the procedure to be instigated if you accidentally found yourself in a minefield was to stay put, not move and a Search and Rescue mission would be triggered.  
3. Turning around and driving out.

None of the options seemed appealing. 

I didn’t dare leave the bike there, I had promised that I would look after it. Fine, if I got blown up that would be more acceptable than having to say “Sorry Susie, I … um … have left your pride and joy in a minefield.  Oops”

And the recovery thing. The Military Minefield Rescue Operation. I was already in enough trouble and a “Minefield Rescue” would compound things even more.  Besides it was an automatic Court Martial if someone ended up in a minefield. Court Martials aren’t to be to be taken lightly, military courts hand out much harsher sentences than your average local magistrate. It would take a lot of explaining. Plus, how long would it take before base was alerted and an aircraft sent on a Search and Rescue mission? Would it be 12 hours? 24hours? 48 hours?  2 days in a freezing and wet field waiting for my own mates to risk their lives to come and rescue me?  That didn’t seem a great option. 

And the final option.  Turn round and drive out and pray to God that today I’m a lucky and all my angels are still looking out for me. 

I asked myself what the implications were of driving out?  I took a deep breath and thought as clearly as possible.  

Should I drive out using exactly the same route that I came in on?  I could see my tracks, but it was rough ground and it wasn’t straight by any means.  My tracks went all over the place. Plus I remembered about double pass mines.  It’s not the first pass that they explode on, it’s the second or third. That would be just my luck. 

What if I kept my feet really high? Yep right, probably a stupid idea in this rough terrain. A mine would take me out and make mincemeat of me no matter where my feet were. 

I was slowly coming round to plan 3.  Maybe it was stupid, but I felt that I had been in many a scrape before and come out smelling of roses.  And some of them were really close. Was I lucky when it came to adventure and risk?  Was this even a time to contemplate such stupidity? Is this a time to find out if fate or destiny really exists?  

So many questions raced through my mind.

No, I thought, go back to plan A.  Walk to the fence and climb out. There wont be mines close to the fence.  I should be okay.  But her prized motorbike …. And I would have to confess, the story would get out and I would be found out anyway. Back to Plan B, or maybe Plan C.

Drive out or walk out.  Drive out or walk out. Am I feeling lucky? My head went round and round.

A cat has nine lives so how many have I used?  That suddenly seemed a good train of thought.  Quite stupid in retrospect but sometimes the imminent prospect of a horrible death focusses the mind and all sorts of “out of the box” thinking happen.

Do I believe in God? Now was a good time to find out as much as any. Was he open to a deal? Is he here? Does he exist? Am I going crazy? Is he listening?  Possibly I thought and decided to go back to the nine lives thing. 

“Nine lives. Nine lives. Nine Lives”

A cat has nine lives.  Do we? Do I? “DO I HAVE NINE LIVES TOO?”

“If so then maybe do I. I better start counting.”

My mind raced so fast, hoping that some other solution would come my way. 

It didn’t. So I said to myself; “Start counting Nigel, fast”

I focussed on the times when I had come close to those nine lives. Close to death, close to major injury, close to hurting others.  Times when it was close and times when I only got out of a situation by incredible luck or the hand of God …… those times when I could do nothing but watch imminent death arrive, but in the last few seconds before annihilation something intervened and put me safely on the ground. 

I knew there were a few, but not too many.  I hoped I had some lives left though.

But in this moment of reckoning I didn’t know there were just so many that I had used up. I flashed past memories as images rushed back;

A almost fatal motorbike crash, getting run over by a van, almost killing me in my teens. Being dragged by a huge wave deep into the sea but surviving. Many near death experiences flying in the military: almost flying through power lines or actually flying through wires, out-of-control situations that got within a split second of death.

And on and on and on.  The more I looked the more I remembered. The more the vivid picture came of getting really close to end-of-life, more often being saved by luck or by coincidence than by good judgement.

I soon went beyond my allotted nine and carried on counting. They didn’t even really cover a lifetime as most were in the previous five years.

The horror started to dawn on me that my life had been so excessively risky up to then.  Then I corrected myself and took responsibility; I had taken too many risks to call myself responsible, and come too close to death on too many occasions to honour the life, the family and the career that I had. 

I could hardly bear thinking about it. My nine lives had been well and truly used up.  (A few days after this encounter a fresh tally came to forty five).

And here I was now, not really knowing what the answer was, but that I had to make a choice.  

A silence descended on me.  I can remember it so clearly.  And in the silence I saw that I really did need to change my life.

What were my reasons for being such a risk taker? Who was I, what was I about?  In my protection of the future, my family and those that I was responsible for it was clear that it all had to change.  Right here and now. 

I had almost five years still to go in the RAF and I needed to step off this crazy roundabout of risk if I wanted to be able to look after everyone, get through to retirement and get my children to stability and safety. 

It was a leveller, being exposed, vulnerable, maybe just a few minutes away from a life changing, potentially tragic and horrific event that would have so many implications for innocent people, let alone myself.  I switched off my thinking to that as it was too catastrophic and dramatic. 

But that knowledge that something had to change shouted at me loud and clear. 

A few years before I had prayed, sincerely and with great love, for the safe delivery of my dear friend. Eleanor.  It had a profound effect. In a strange way it worked, in ways that are hard to explain, though I will explain later.  

But now I needed to pray for the deliverance of my own soul.

I asked: “Dear God, if you do exist, will you listen to me please.  Will you provide me safe passage?  I need this if only for my children.”  

Then a little pleading from my ego:

“Okay, plus of course my reputation.  It being in tatters takes on a whole new meaning when you’re talking about being blown limb from limb.”

I paused long and hard. With nothing much in the way of options on the table, God seemed to be my only answer in this time of need.  With the incident with Eleanor two years before there was a strong message there about the power of authentic prayer. I didn’t want to take advantage …. but I did want to be heard. I needed to be out of here safely and quietly. 

So I struck a deal with God.

“Dear God I promise to be good from now on” in”.  

“I promise to be ultra-safe and ultra-cautious if you lead me unscathed through this situation and to the end of my days in the Royal Air Force.”

“And I promise that I will never, ever fly again as a pilot when my job is done. I know I love taking it to the extreme far too often.  I’ll end that risk here and now with this commitment.” 

And I did. 

From that minefield I turned the bike round, and rode back the same way that I came in, safely, with I’m sure a little host of angels guiding and protecting me.  

I noted wryly at the place where a farmer had curled the fence back and the waters edge in order to get access just inside the fence.  I had driven past that and almost a mile further back and right through the middle of the minefield. 

Was I thankful to get to the other side?  You bet.

Was the bike returned unscathed? Oh yes.

Did I fulfil my promise to God? You bet. Even if he didn’t exist I didn’t want to piss him off. 

I changed my ways, became safer, took less risks, left the RAF five years later and never flew again nor for the rest of my life.

I remained true to my word and kept my feet on the ground and following that wise decision, never put anyone else at risk with my capers or stupidity in the skies.  

The phrase “There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots”  always rung in my ears as salient advice. 

I had certainly lived, used up my nine lives and many more, and called upon my angels far too many times for safe deliverance.

They needed time off and I gave it to them.

Next Chapter: Excerpts From “Climbing the Mountain of Shame”

Previous Chapter: A Spiritual Awakening Aged 3